by Julian Beale
Conrad made his way towards the door marked ‘Toilets’. He didn’t hurry, neither did he meander. Beyond the entrance was the expected division between ‘Men’ and ‘Women’. He entered the gents and locked himself in the middle of five cubicles. He looked up to see a simple roof made of plastic panels carried on a lattice framework which would not bear weight. But just below the roof and securely mounted to the block wall in front of him protruded the solid iron stanchions which supported the lavatory header tank. There was no pedestal, but a white tile surrounded hole in the ground. Nothing daunted, Conrad gazed up at the right hand stanchion while he composed himself and relaxed his muscles. He crouched with his head turned upward and his eyes fixed on his target stanchion. He came up out of this squat position in a long, fluid leap, right arm punched vertically above his head so that at the top of his jump, his hand locked around the stanchion. He relaxed for a moment, swinging in a gentle arc around the pivot of his arm which took his body weight without effort.
He went on then, bringing up his left hand onto the second stanchion and pulling himself higher, using legs and knees to gain purchase from the solid downpipe which ran from the cistern to the ground. Then he could position his left arm along the top of the cistern to take his weight and provide balance while his right hand explored further upwards. The roof panels rested on their frame. He pushed up the one above him and manoeuvred it onto its neighbour so he could move his right hand to grasp the top of the breeze block wall. From there, he used his strength to haul his body through the gap and into a crouch on top of the wall, which was solid but narrow. He removed the adjacent roof panel giving access to the cubicle on the other side of the wall. He slipped through to swing from the brackets in reverse procedure to his ascent. He dropped to the floor, flushed the cistern and adjusted his clothes.
So far, so good. Conrad left the cubicle, finding that he was alone in the gents’ block. He made his exit, merging into the wider entrance and on into the arrivals hall. Ten yards in front of him was a writing shelf set at standing height with piles of landing cards. Conrad made for it with a confident walk.
The place was hardly bustling. No other flights had landed that morning, and Peter Bushell had given him the passenger count, only twenty-three including Eboli and Alexa, of those leaving Qantas in Bahrain. He could see various groups of uniformed officials around the large hall and at points between, plain clothed cleaners shuffled lethargic mops. All the arriving passengers had completed immigration, heath and police. He could see them in a group at the extreme end of the hall with the tall black figure of Eboli prominent amongst them. Further away, he could see a group standing behind the Customs barrier, likely a welcoming party with two tall men of European descent and one woman. Also a fourth figure who stood out: he was immense in stature and bulk, swathed in Arab dress.
Conrad left the desk and moved towards the group of passengers. He willed Alexa to turn and face in his direction. Sight of him was to be her trigger for action, to follow the single, simple instruction he had given her in the plane. As he walked, he eyed the gallery above and at the back of the hall. It seemed empty, but the sole occupant had been careful to conceal himself in the shadows of a supporting roof pillar. He was a man of above average height and slim build, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and carrying a small crocodile attaché case. His wealth was apparent in every detail. His fine features and dark complexion revealed his provenance from this region. His rapt attention was concentrated on the vision who was Alexa. He was shuddering as he watched her every move and expression. Thus far, she exceeded his expectations. The client made the colossal effort to retreat to the staircase which would take him down to the front of the airport, through the crowds of merchants and beggars and welcome wishers and on to his chauffeured car which would follow the limousine to his secure villa.
Standing by Georges and listening to Riaz continue his chatter, Alexa was taut. She had so often turned her head to look that she dare not do so again. But she must and finally she did, then blinking and looking again to be sure in her tortured mind that it really was Connie standing there, out in the open and studying some piece of paper in his hand. Alexa put a hand up to her mouth and swallowed twice, stifling a sudden urge to scream with relief. She felt bile rising in her throat. She saw the luggage approaching and was inspired to speak.
‘Georges’, she said, ‘I’ve been standing here long enough and I feel hot and tired and grubby. Fetch me that small case of mine please, and I will go to the Ladies to tidy up a bit.’
Eboli started to protest but Mr Riaz chimed in to support her and to demonstrate his proficiency in French as he declared it a good idea which would cost them little further delay. He turned to summon help with the raise of his elegant little arm. Immediately, the single woman and the huge man detached themselves from the welcoming committee and were waved through the barrier by the customs official.
Conrad viewed this with concern. It amounted to three against one with Alexa as baggage. He could manage, but he did want to keep it discreet and it didn’t help that he was now the only obvious passenger still milling about whilst the others collected their bags. He withdrew again to his writing table and began to scribble furiously. Alexa was the first to pass him, followed by the white woman minder who looked East European, fit and strong, not to be underestimated. Mentally, Conrad christened her Olga. Just a few steps behind came Georges Eboli, toting a suitcase and puffing as he walked. By his side paced the colossus whom Conrad named Black Beauty. Close up, this guy bothered Conrad less. He was big, but too bulky and looked far short of fit.
Conrad slouched after them into the common entrance to the washrooms, walked down the hallway and entered the Gents. He found Black Beauty pacing the floor while Eboli stood in front of a basin. The three of them were alone. Conrad caught a glare from Beauty as he stepped up to the urinals, then a shorter stop before a basin before making his exit. Eboli would be five minutes more and expecting Alexa to take longer. Conrad had time, but not to waste. He stood for a few seconds in the common hallway, appreciating its gloom and reckoning that the watchers at the customs barrier would have trouble in seeing him. But they did know that he had gone in there and they would be watching to see him come out again. Action time. He hunched his shoulders, giving himself a slight stoop as he crossed the hallway and pushed open the door to the Ladies, hesitating as he entered.
All the cubicle doors were open except one: Alexa must be behind it. Olga was standing to his right, resting her back against a line of basins with mirrors above. She gesticulated to tell him he was in the wrong place and should be across the hallway. Conrad gave her a befuddled nod and turned to the entrance door which he had allowed to close behind him, pushing at it when he should have pulled. Olga gave a grunt of exasperation as she pushed herself away from her basin rest and moved to grasp the door handle, to get rid of this oaf as soon as possible.
Standing beside her, Conrad struck. His left hand moved to join Olga’s on the door pull while the right circled behind her head. With all the force he could muster from this short take off, he swept head and door together. Olga gave a grunt of pain and he could feel her stunned. She might have passed out but he couldn’t take the risk. He took her sagging weight in his arms, spun her round and ran her head first into the tiled wall opposite. Bloody mess, inert body.
He let Olga fall to the floor and crossed to Alexa’s cubicle, knocking lightly.
‘Open, Alexa, it’s me.’ He heard a sob of relief mingled with fear as the bolt scratched back and the cubicle door swung open. Alexa was sitting there on her throne, fully dressed, knees pressed together, feet wide apart. She looked up, tears starting to stream down, shoulders hunched and shaking. He could take in the signs easily enough. Alexa was collapsing. He stepped forward and lifted her into his arms. He held her tightly to him and whispered quietly, sounding calm although he was wound like a spring with the urgency of their timing.
He said, ‘Just do exactly what I say and we
’ll be fine.’
As if on cue, the entrance door behind him hissed and he whipped round to see Black Beauty enter. Conrad was never to know what had alerted the colossus to check on his partner. It didn’t matter. The big man took in the sight of Olga in a crumpled heap, Aveling and Alexa embracing. He drew a knife from beneath his robes and rushed straight in, the huge bull figure threatening to eclipse them. Conrad felt relief. Beauty should have retreated to raise the alarm, and then they would have been in real trouble. He pushed Alexa away and she flopped back on her loo seat, looking out on the scene through eyes as wide as saucers.
Conrad jumped forward to meet the assault, twisting his body and ducking his head as the vicious knife scythed just above him and folds of Beauty’s robe swept across his face. He smelt rancid body odour as he kicked out sharply, connecting with the Arab’s knee which collapsed under the hurtling weight. Beauty was face down on the floor, sliding past Alexa’s cubicle, screaming fury and hardly hurt with his knife still clasped in his right hand. Conrad whirled round and kicked him twice more in the side of the head, aiming for the ear. He dropped onto his back, broad as a boat but flabby beneath his knee which he settled under the back of the neck. Ignoring the outstretched arm which flailed vainly with the knife, Conrad linked the fingers of both hands through the beard and under the chin. He used his strength to pull back sharply against the pressure of his knee. The resulting snap was instant and audible to Alexa. Episode over as reflexes juggled with the big body in its dying and the knife clattered onto the tiles of the floor.
Alexa was catatonic. He took her by the arms and stood her by the door of the adjoining cubicle. He hefted the big body from the floor and hauled it into Alexa’s cubicle to lie draped over the pedestal. He fetched the much lighter weight of Olga and dumped her face down over Beauty. Back out to fetch Alexa, pushing her in front of him and telling her to stand still and close her eyes. He bolted the door behind them and climbed over Beauty’s body to stand on Olga, from which height he could stretch up to reach the roof panels. Their exit became simply the reverse of his entry. Move a panel, up onto the breeze block wall, move another panel. Now for the tricky bit. Alexa still stood motionless below him, her eyes screwed tight shut, rigid with shock. Conrad slipped back down to stand beside her, lifted her with his arms wrapped around her knees until he could place her feet on Olga’s back. He stretched to push her face towards the wall and held her there with one hand while he scrambled up beside her. He forced her hands around the cistern pipe and went on up himself, turning on top of the wall to balance on his stomach, the lower half of his body sticking through into transit whilst his arms dangled down towards Alexa. He could just reach her and she managed to place one hand in his. Then, for her, it was like going up in a lift.
He dropped Alexa onto the floor on the other side and steered her before him out of the cubicle. To his relief, Miranda was there and waiting, poised between the run of basins and the exit door. She was ashen, her hands clinging to the handle of a small Qantas crew bag which she ripped open, pulling out a uniform and shoes. Alexa was motionless, perhaps the best help she could have given them. Conrad pulled off her smart Paris dress and Miranda struggled her into the uniform, lifting one foot at a time to get on the shoes and finishing with the airline cap crammed on her head.
Miranda linked her arm tightly through Alexa’s and carried the flight bag. She opened the door, looked out and nodded to Conrad. He moved in front of the two girls and left the Ladies, moving in a diagonal across the transit lounge to distance himself from them before walking up behind the few passengers who were waiting to go through onto the hot tarmac. He reached into his pocket for his passport and transit card. Behind him, he heard the click of the girls’ heels on the tiled floor. Miranda was chattering brightly. They hardly broke step as they passed through the separate barrier reserved for crew members.
Conrad passed out of transit and walked under the broiling sun to the aircraft. He took his turn, climbed the steps and settled back into his seat beside the Aussie farmers. He closed his eyes but remained electric inside. He had hoped to spirit Alexa away, not to rub out a couple of objectors in the process. If they found the evidence quickly, they would keep the aircraft on the ground and take their time with a search. Conrad balled his fists in his lap, forced himself to stillness, longed to hear the distinctive whistle of four jet engines spooling up, willed the Boeing to start moving.
Back in the arrivals hall, Mr Riaz had waited after Eboli and the girl walked off with their minders. He knew they would take some time, but after ten minutes he felt a pricking concern and moved quietly to check things. He walked nimbly on his small feet down the length of the hall, bowing politely to various officials as they stood at their posts. He reached the lavatory block and went into the Gents to find Georges Eboli looking renewed. Mr Riaz complimented him gravely and asked about Jamil, ‘the large man who accompanied you down here.’
Georges looked at himself in the mirror as he gave a final tweak to his tie.
‘I heard him leave when I was shaving a few minutes ago. I imagine he’s waiting outside’.
‘Very good,’ said Mr Riaz, ‘I will await you in the hall.’
He stepped back through the entrance with alarm bells going off in his head. He crossed the corridor and pushed open the door to the Ladies. The empty room yawned at him. One cubicle was closed and locked against his push. He looked around and saw Jamil’s knife discarded on the floor. Riaz gasped, took a firm grip on himself and started to compute in his very sharp brain the most likely explanation and the best course of action now open to him.
He went back into the hallway and allowed the door of the Ladies to swing shut. At that moment, Georges Eboli emerged into the hall.
‘I have found Jamil,’ Mr Riaz said calmly, ‘a policeman has informed me that he was satisfied you had all you required and he went to morning prayers. He will rejoin us shortly. And now, I will accompany you and we will pass through customs together. Then, Mr Eboli, you will have truly arrived in Bahrain.’
‘Surely we must wait for Miss Labarre.’
‘Oh, you are too late for that. It is rare indeed for a lady to complete her toilette before a gentleman, but it has been so on this occasion. She returned to our group and I have already escorted her through.’
Mr Riaz beamed at Georges, who shrugged and resumed his walk. He was feeling restored and confident. The two men carried on their way to the customs post. When they stopped for Eboli’s documents to be checked, Riaz spoke to one of the two European men waiting at the barrier and then he turned to Georges.
‘Please proceed with my staff who will escort you to our limousine, Mr Eboli. I will delay you only a few minutes, but I must pay my respects to our Airport Director before I leave. It is our custom, you know.’
Georges nodded, content to follow his porter and a gaggle of retainers as they made their way towards the smart cars parked in the reserved lane outside the terminal building. Mr Riaz crooked his finger at the tough Russian named Gorki, and together they walked quickly back to the lavatory block and into the Ladies. The closed cubicle still held its secrets but Gorki made short work of the door and the grim burdens lying across the pedestal were exposed.
Mr Riaz was a resourceful man. The basic explanation was obvious. No time to waste now in working out the details. The girl must by now be back on the plane and whoever had helped her, probably that guy with the landing card, must be there with her having taken out two of his prime assets. The priority was to stop the departure. With the plane anchored to the ground by red tape and edict from Air Traffic Control they could sort this out, secure the girl and go to work on her accomplice: there would be time to see if Eboli had been in on it. But once Qantas took off, proof, retribution and the ‘product’ would be gone forever and there would indeed be hell to pay from his Master.
All of this whistled through his head. He gave Gorki a simple set of instructions. Stay here, do not move or let anyone in under any ci
rcumstances. Wait for my return. A curt nod in response and then Riaz was scuttling off on his short legs. He knew exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t issue an order to the airport management. He didn’t have the blood or the breeding, not even the nationality. He had the brains, however, and he knew where to get the clout. The Master was qualified and well respected too, even by those who knew him well enough to overlook his peccadilloes.
Mr Riaz knew exactly where to find him. He would be in the upstairs gallery, concealed behind a pillar, pawing the ground and just waiting for her to walk the last few yards into his clutches. Mr Riaz sprinted up the stairs and was horrified to find he was wrong. The watching point had been abandoned and the Client had sought out his car and chauffeur, relocating into the public car park from where he could monitor progress unobserved.
Mr Riaz dashed out of the terminal in search of the Master’s car. He expected to see it right outside but there was no sign. Desperate and despairing, he cast his net wider and finally located his Master’s Cadillac. As he scuttled towards it, he heard the thunder of engine power and looked up to see the Kangaroo symbol sail over his head. Mr Riaz stopped to vomit on the scorching tarmac. Allah alone knew what would happen next.
It went worst for Georges Eboli. They did not believe his protestations, nor did they wish to. Georges succumbed to merciful heart failure about a week later in one of the dungeon cells beneath the Master’s remote villa. He first endured relentless physical abuse and degradation, much of it orchestrated by Mr Riaz who was desperate to redirect the incandescent wrath of his deviant Master.
